Date: Thu, 6 Dec 2007 23:06:48 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Instrument, Part Eight

THE INSTRUMENT

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part  Eight


Over the next couple of months I was generally very
pleased with how the pony Jason was progressing.  He
seemed to acclimatise well to the work, and as he ran
more and more he appeared also to be able to go faster
and faster and for extended distances:  his already
superbly muscled body became sleeker and even more
well defined, if such a thing was possible.  And he no
longer appeared to resent being used as a pony - there
were no more wild looks when his cuffs were attached
to the shafts in he morning, and not even any attempts
at speaking when he was on duty, even when I allowed
him to wear just a normal "working" bit, and dispensed
with the training ball.  I was amused to see, too,
that he lost all his inhibitions about performing his
bodily functions - it was quite usual to see him
pissing as he stood there patiently waiting for the
Sheikh to order him to move on to the next halt;  and
on one occasion he quite casually dropped a couple of
turds just as he was about to move off.  Sexually,
though, he never accepted that as a free man I had
complete and total usage of his body.

I had hoped that after our initial encounter in the
stables he would learn to accept my cock, and that he
might even begin to look forward to my visits.  It was
not to be, though, and on each occasion that I
attempted to use him sexually, he protested so
violently that I was forced to have him restrained.  I
didn't want to have to prod him each time, of course,
so I got into the habit of doing a little advance
planning:  I told the stable lads of my intentions,
and on his return from work on evenings when I
intended to use him they prepared him properly - a
good enema, to make sure he was pleasantly clean
inside for me, and then they attached one of his wrist
cuffs to his collar before shackling him into his
stall.  I found that with one arm effectively out of
action like that I was more than capable of
overpowering Jason and taking him by force, and this
had the added advantage as far as I was concerned that
Jason was able to resist - and resist strongly - so
that we had  to have a long, sweaty tussle before I
was finally able to grapple him down and skewer him
with my cock.  Somehow it's so much more satisfying to
have sex when you're covered in sweat, and know that
you're doing it because you want it, irrespective of
what the other guy wants.   After I'd finished, I'd
lie on top of him, pin his free arm to the ground, and
truly enjoy his sensational muscles as they heaved
under me.  The only thing that would have improved the
experience would have been to have Jason talk to me
afterwards, as a man likes a bit of buddy-to-buddy
talk after really good sex, doesn't he?  But Jason
would never do this - he'd scream and shout foul abuse
at me as I fought him, overpowered him and fucked him,
but then afterwards would lie there resolutely silent,
even if I bit those tender bits of skin in his
armpits, or let my sharp teeth scrape threateningly
over his nipples.  He would even turn his face away,
to avoid looking at me if he could.

In an effort to get Jason to be more co-operative, I
even arranged to have him put in with the drays
occasionally.  They were  real men, and as they lived
and worked so closely together they understood what
pleasure could be gained from each others bodies.  I
stood and watched the first time as they came back
from the fields and to their astonishment and delight
found Jason tethered in their stall.  They fell on
him, and even though he is an excellent fighter, he
was clearly no match for the six very large niggas -
as I've told you, drays are always chosen for their
size and power, and these guys also knew how to
co-ordinate their actions so they didn't get in each
others way.  They were soon "spit roasting" Jason, one
of the big black cocks effectively silencing him as
another violated his hole.

After the first few times of trying this, though, I
reluctantly called the whole thing off - Jason seemed
to have talked to the niggas and got them to agree
that they shouldn't fuck him, and instead they all sat
around companionably talking, before all sleeping
together as if they were real buddies.  I learned
later that one of the niggas had himself been in the
marines, and perhaps that had something to do with it.
 It also  seemed that Jason had learned a bit about
the fun of proper sex, and if they were set on an
evening of fun, he now enthusiastically fucked the
niggas.

I was much less pleased with what was happening to the
young slave Marc, though - I had assumed that the
Sheikh would soon tire of him as he usually did with
the young lads who he bought, but for some reason this
did not happen with Marc.  Instead, Marc seemed to be
exerting some sort of strange influence over his
owner, who was treating him almost as if he were a
free man, rather than a slave.  He talked to Marc,
allowed Marc to ride with him in his pony trap, and
took him everywhere with him.  Marc had originally
been given one of the short domestic slave tunics as
I've told you, but soon this had been replaced with a
pair of slave shorts and a T, and within a month or so
these in turn were superseded by "proper" long shorts,
such as I as a free man wore.  I tried to remonstrate
with the Sheikh about this, saying how important it
was for slaves to be treated as slaves, but he brushed
aside my complaints, telling me that Marc was  "a
perfectly delightful companion", and that I should
focus my attention on making sure that everything else
on the estate was running perfectly.

Although I was now a moderately wealthy guy as my
salary continued to pile up in the Swiss bank account
and I had little occasion to spend anything at all, I
began to get frustrated and started to long to do a
bit of travelling.  I asked the Sheikh if  I could
take some of my accumulated vacation time, but he
would not even discuss it with me, saying that my
services were needed there, and that as usual the lost
vacation days would be paid for.  But this was not
enough for me, and I demanded to be given my passport
so that I could leave - and the Sheikh flatly refused
(or, rather , in that way he has, he simply appeared
never to hear my requests and demands for it!).  He
himself travelled, of course, so when he had taken his
private jet to New York for a brief visit, I took the
opportunity to leave the demesne and go to the
capital.  I took myself off to our embassy, and after
a  lot of questions managed to convince them that I
was indeed a proper citizen, that I had "lost" my
passport and needed another.  It would take a couple
of weeks to come through, they told me, but that was
OK by me - it would give me time to get my things
together, and make arrangements to leave in an orderly
way with a proper work plan and stuff all set out so
that the management of the Sheikh's affairs should not
suffer in my absence.

I don't know who "betrayed" me - I reckon it might
have been Marc, who was always around the place and
who probably saw me doing a bit of packing, and
putting the finishing touches to my plans.  Just as I
was about to leave, two of the guards came for me, and
half pushed, half dragged me into the Sheikh's
presence.  Marc was sitting on the floor by the side
of him, his face set into some sort of smirk.

It was no use - I tried to tell his Highness that I
was only going for a short vacation, that arrangements
were in place for looking after things whilst I was
away, and so on.  I doubt that he heard - he was
almost incandescent with rage, and was screaming that
I was disloyal and that I did not appreciate all the
many advantages that having him as an employer had
brought to me.  Them more I tried to protest, the
worse it got, until finally he screamed "You will not
leave.  Not now, not ever.  I pronounce you to be a
slave."

One part of my brain registered these words,  and I
tried to protest, saying that I had done nothing to
deserve it.  But another part told me that this was a
disaster - the Sheikh was of course an absolute and
total ruler in his country, he was the only lawmaker,
and what he said would happen.   Then he ordered them
to take me away, to the holding cell!

They dragged me now - I did everything I could to
resist, but it was futile - through the palace and
down the grim flights of steps into the sub-basement.
It was only when they opened the door to the
interrogation chamber, hauled me across it and threw
me into the cage on the far side of the room that my
plight really began to sink home, I suppose.

I'd seen lots of men caged as I now was, but it was
not until the guards left, closing the heavy door to
the chamber behind them and leaving me in utter
darkness, that I began to realise how terrible their
plight was.  It was cold down there, and there was not
a shred of comfort in the cage - I knew that it was
deliberately left totally bare so that the captive
would have to attempt to make himself as comfortable
as possible, with no chance of success.  And in the
utter blackness I had no idea of the passing of time,
except of course that I soon needed to piss, and
remembered  that another feature of the cage wad that
there was no provision for this:  making the captive
soil himself, and sit there with the stench of his own
wastes assailing him, was all part of the process.

We usually kept captives in the cage for three days,
totally without food and in the dark, and I guess that
is what happened to me.  Certainly I was famished with
hunger, and I was reduced to licking the damp walls of
the cage in an attempt to get some moisture in me.
For most of the time I suppose I sat there, my arms
wrapped around me in an attempt to conserve heat,  and
it was utterly humiliating to have to breathe the
stench of my own piss, and my own crap (yes, I had to
do it,).   When the door was ultimately opened I did
as I had seen so many captives do before, and sprang
to my feet, clutched at the bars, and began to beg the
guards to let me have something to drink and eat.
They ignored me of course, as they were ordered to,
and instead I found myself being battered by the
high-pressure water jet as they turned the hose on me
and the cage.  I knew it was pointless to ignore their
orders to strip (and I had nothing to be ashamed of in
my body anyway), but in an act of defiance, I did.
And of course I was soon battered helplessly into the
corner of the cage, struggling desperately for air as
they turned up the pressure and volume of the water
jet, as I had seen done to Jason just a few weeks
before.

It's no use carrying on fighting when there's no
chance of success, is there?  So as soon as I could I
struggled to my feet, and stripped off.  I couldn't
help noticing how the guards looked at my body as  I
stood there in front of them - not the interested look
of one free man to another who is interested, as all
men are, in comparing his own endowment with the
others; but the look that a free man gives a slave,
the look that says that the free man is sizing up the
slave as a suitable worker, or sex toy.   I was being
appraised just as if I was some piece of livestock,
someone who now had absolutely no control any longer
over what was going to happen to his body.

When the Sheikh ultimately appeared I was cold, and
standing there slightly shivering.  He strode into the
chamber, his eyes raked my body, and he said quietly
"Excellent, Steve!  I always admired your physique,
but had I known how enticing your body is, I would
have had you naked before.  There is no need to
shiver, though - you have nothing to be afraid of as I
do not intend to punish you further for your act of
betrayal..."

"Highness, I only wanted a vacation... I intended to
come back, I....."

"Silence!  I told you that you were not to leave, and
you were making secret plans to do so.  That is an act
of betrayal.  But you have nothing to fear, as I have
said:  in return for your previous loyal service, I am
going to be merciful...."

"Thank you, Highness.  As soon as I am out of here, I
will start work again...."

He smiled, a smile that I had learned always meant
trouble.  "Indeed you will, Steve!  I do not intend to
punish you further for betraying my trust, so I do not
intend to have you gelded, or crucified.  I have
pronounced you to be a slave, and that is punishment
enough.  And as a slave you will indeed work...."

Before I could say any more, he turned and ordered the
guards to bring in the "horse", and I stood there in
horror, knowing what that meant for me.  The boy Marc
then came into the room, and the Sheikh put his arm
around him, pulling him close to the Sheikh's bloated
body, and stroking his hair.  "Now, little one, the
first of your duties...."

The Sheikh was almost crooning this to Marc, who stood
there with a half smile on his face which spoke of
triumph, or expectation.

On a signal from the Sheikh the guards came into the
cage, and grabbed me.   I knew resistance was useless
as I did not want to add the agony of a prodding to my
other problems, so I did not resist as they took me
over to the "horse",  threw me across it (the leather
felt cold and clammy against my bare skin, even though
this was already chill with the cold), pulled my arms
forward, and fastened the manacles to hold my wrists
to the front legs.  I stood there, shuffling around
uncertainly, and seeing in my mind's eye the pictures
of so many other naked men that I had had similarly
held like that in the past.  I began to realise just
how cruel it was:  had I been totally immobile,  I
would have known it was futile to make any effort to
resist and would have had to take what was coming to
me and blame it on "them".  But with my legs free and
only my wrists shackled, I could move to some extent -
although  I could not escape.  These attempts, useless
though they were, gave me some glimmer of hope that I
might escape, and because I had that hope, I tugged
and strained, and began to blame myself for not
achieving anything..

To my horror I heard the Sheikh say casually, as if it
was the most natural thing in the world, "Now, Marc,
your first duty as my new Instrument:  the slave Steve
is to be start to learn his new place in our world, he
needs to begin to realise that his body is no longer
his own, and that it now exists solely to satisfy me.
Although he has had a lot of experience at fucking
men, I believe he has never experienced another man's
cock violating his hole.  It is perhaps fitting that
your first duty as my Instrument will be to confirm
his new status as a slave and take his cherry!"

I could only watch helplessly as Marc shucked his
shirt, and then pushed down his shorts - like a lot of
young guys, as his cock was revealed his erection was
so hard that it almost rocketed upwards as the
pressure of the shorts on it was released, and he
strode across the room towards me with it bobbing up
and down merrily.  I knew with a sick realisation that
all too soon that hot, fleshy part of him would be
forcing itself deep into me.  He stood by my head,
ruffling his fingers through my hair almost
contemptuously, and letting his cock wave around right
in front of my eyes.  I caught a whiff of that
familiar "man" smell that exudes from a man's balls,
even when he is freshly washed.  "Look, Steve... Look
what is in store for you.  Look what I am going to ram
up your ass, just as you did to me....", he whispered.

"Please, no....", I cried out, not to Marc, but to the
Sheikh.   "Please, Highness, no!  I will work loyally
for you, I will..."

"...You will be a slave, a slave who works loyally for
me.  Now, let us waste no more time - begin, boy!"

I felt Marc's thighs pressing against the back of my
own - I usually like that sensation when it's my
thighs pressing into those of the man I'm going to
fuck, but now I hated it.   As much as I tried to
struggle, with my hands manacled to the horse I was
powerless, and I felt his strong fingers pulling my
ass cheeks apart.  I kicked out at him, and the next
moment screamed as he pulled away and then slashed at
my bare butt with a cane.  Then he was back again,
prising me apart..... Pressing his stiff cock down
into the virgin spaces between my buttocks.  He
stroked it up and down, crooning  at me "Feel it,
Steve?  Feel my hot strong cock on your ass?  Do you
like it, Steve?  Do you like feeling another man's
cock down there.... Now...."

As he said those last words, he repositioned his cock
head so that it was resting on my hole - I could feel
it's hot, sticky heat. Then he gave a little
triumphant cry, and pressed forward.  I screamed as
his cock forced its way into me, and like so many men
had done when I was at first fucking them, I began to
swear at him and call him all the vile names I could
think of as he pushed his cock ever deeper in to me.
He stood there then, and I could feel his harsh,
bristly pubes scratching at my skin (the Sheikh had
evidently decided he should be allowed to grow his
pubic hair back).

I felt violated.  Powerless.  Controlled.  Another man
had his cock forced into my ass, and there was
absolutely nothing I could do about it.  I was no
longer a man, a man who could choose his sexual
pleasure - I was an object, a thing, that this boy was
using to please the Sheikh.  And it wasn't just the
humiliation and pain from being fucked forcibly - it
was more than that:  it was the knowledge that the
Sheikh had the power to order this, and that he had
done so partially o amuse himself;  and that this
could happen again, and again, as many times as he
wished it.  It isn't right to use a man's body like
that.

I'd stopped crying out for a moment, but as he began
to fuck me - fuck me vigorously, with no gentleness or
finesse - I began to shout and scream again.  Now it
wasn't just the anger, frustration and shame that was
causing these cries, but also the physical pain that a
large cock ramming in and out of you lustily brings.

I suppose I was fortunate that Marc was still only
seventeen.  A guy of that age just can't control
himself, and the exquisite pleasure that a tight,
virgin ass hole is causing his cock means that he soon
loses it:   above my own cries I heard Marc shout
"Jesus fucking Christ.....", and his body slammed into
me one last time.  In the stories they say you can
feel a guy's cum shoot up into you, but I know from
when I've been fucking that this isn't really so - you
can pretend to cum, and the guy you're fucking won't
know.  But now I knew positively from the other side,
so to speak, that it was true - Marc had definitely
shot his load, but I had not felt "the hot splash of
cum searing my insides" or any of that crap that some
stories say happens.  I had stopped thrashing around
and was lying three as if I was defeated.  Marc  stood
there for a few moments, his cock buried in my and his
body now thrown forward along mine.  I could feel his
heart racing against my skin.

"You're one ace fuck, Steve!", he told me.  "I'm going
to enjoy taking you a lot, as you're now a slave and
I'm his Highness's Instrument."

"Fuck you!", I spat out.

He just laughed, and caused me to cry out again as he
pulled out of me very rapidly.  In a totally
humiliating way he slapped my bare butt, and said
"No, Steve, I think it's 'fuck you'!"

He came and stood by my head again and I could see -
and smell - his cock as it detumesced right there in
front of my eyes.  "I ought to make you clean me up,
Steve", he said quietly.  "But I don't think we can
trust you yet - I don't want to be a candidate for a
penectomy as you bite me!"

With that he strode across the room, his lithe body
clearly on the cusp of turning into mature manhood,
and I lay there helplessly, watching as he washed his
cock in the sink in the corner, as I myself had done
so many times in that grim room.  Then he walked back
towards the Sheikh, his eyes shining with excitement.
I turned my head and saw him reach to pull on his
shorts, but stopped instantly as the Sheikh motioned
for him to desist, and then, after a further nod from
the Sheikh, strode over to the cupboard where we kept
the branding iron.

"No!  Please, your Highness, please, not that....",  I
shouted.  "Treat me as a slave if you will, but
please, not that...."

The Sheikh just chuckled, and replied softly "Now,
Steve, you know what you have told me on so many
occasions - a slave must learn that he is truly a
slave, that he is no longer a free man, and that his
life has changed irrevocably.  You were always telling
me that the 'S' mark on a slave's body is a constant
reminder to him that he is now owned property, and I
agree with you:  how else can a slave truly know that
he is no longer free?  What better way is there of
signalling to a man that he is no longer that, but
instead is an animal whose hide can be marked to
signify that his is owned?"

"No, sir, please...."

My pleading was no use though as the Sheikh just
ignored me, and instead watched as Marc took the
branding iron out of the cupboard, and plugged it in.
I'd several times wished that we used the old
fashioned ways of doing this, as it seems to me that a
brazier of glowing coals and a heavy iron thrust in to
it and stirred around adds a certain excitement to the
proceedings; but even with a mass of slave labour in
the palace, that was just impracticable:  it simply
takes too long to get the coals up to temperature, and
it's also hard to get the iron sufficiently hot (and
flesh seared with an iron at too low a temperature
never achieves that crisp, sharp edge to the brand
that is  so desirable).  So reluctantly I'd acquired
the electric one, adapted from the industrial irons
they use on big ranches to brand cattle, and now it
was to be used on me.

I could feel something trickling down the inside of my
thighs as I stood there, and there was that foul smell
of shit reaching my nose - I knew that my ass juices
mixed with Marc's cum must be exuding from my ass and
running down my legs, but I was helpless to do
anything about it - I'd often watched this happen to
slaves as they stood there and I suppose I'd
recognised that however good the muscles are at
holding in shit, they're simply no good at stopping
cum running out.  But even though it wasn't my fault,
and even thought I was utterly unable to do anything
about it, I still felt embarrassment, and shame that
my body was acting in this way.

It was the Sheikh who decided to do the branding -
often he let me do it, but he was adept at it himself
and sometimes took control of the iron, as he did on
this occasion..  He ordered Marc to get up and sit
astride my waist as I lay there, to prevent me from
bucking around and spoiling the sharpness of the
brand.  I felt Marc's hot, moist ass pressed into my
back, and as he shuffled to get himself firmly astride
me he also slapped my ass once or twice as if to
demonstrate his total control over me.

All I could do was lie there and watch as the iron
turned from black to red, then orange, and finally to
its harsh yellow "operating temperature".  The Sheikh
spat at it, observing with amusement how his spit
vaporised - I'd often told him that this was
unnecessary as the electric iron was thermostatically
controlled, but I suppose it's an age-old gesture that
men do.  Then he approached me, stood there staring
down at me, and said "You were foolish, Steve.  I
admired you and the work you did, but I cannot
tolerate disobedience.  And as a slave you must be
particularly careful not to be disobedient - we do not
tolerate in slaves behaviour that might be marginally
acceptable in free men, and the punishments, as you
will know from administering so many of them, are very
severe.  So it is good that you are now being marked -
 every time you feel the brand on your ass you will be
reminded of your status, and will know how we do not
hesitate to use the flesh of a slave."

I tried once more.  "No, please, Highness, no.  I'm
sorry I tried to leave, but it was only for a short
vacation.  I always intended to return...."

"But it was deliberate disobedience, Steve.  And it
was underhand - you waited until I had left, before
visiting your embassy.  Did you think I would not find
out?  No, you are now a slave, and all my slaves bear
my mark...."

I felt the heat of the glowing iron as it approached
my bare skin, and at one level I knew what was about
to happen.  But nothing prepares you for the
consciousness-obliterating pain, the shock, the sheer
overwhelming of all your senses as something like that
is pressed into you.  And then, if such a thing were
to happen in 'normal' life, your reflexes would pull
you away - but on the horse, held down by another
man's weight, you can't do this and so the agony goes
on and on.  And then you get the smell - that special
smell of searing, charring meat, and you know that
it's not a steak, but your own body that's causing the
acrid smoke to rise.  I suppose I was aware that I was
screaming, shrieking, making  totally uncontrollable
sounds from deep down inside me.  And at another level
I knew that my bladder control had failed, and that
piss was streaming out of me.

It went on hurting and hurting, long after Marc
climbed off me, and long after the Sheikh had left.  I
was left there strapped to the horse, desperate to be
able to move, to relieve my cramped muscles, to be
able to run my hands over my battered body, but I was
powerless.  It was this feeling of utter helplessness
that was so awful:  when your body is in pain, you
need to be able to touch it, to try to make it better
(even though you know that such action is futile).  I
was truly beginning to understand the awfulness of
life as a slave, having absolutely no power to do even
the smallest things in my life without the permission
of my owner.

I don't know how long I stayed there.  I began to
shiver, both from the relative coolness of the place,
and from the ravages that my body had been subjected
to.   The flow of cum from my ass had stopped, and now
as I moved my legs there was a slight tugging on the
delicate skin on the inside of my thighs where Marc's
cum had dried.  There was a terrible stench, though,
from the cum, the charred skin of my body, and my own
piss and shit that was covering the floor.  It was a
relief when the door opened again and Marc appeared,
accompanied by two guards.

One of the guards pressed the tip of his prod into
that little hollow at the base of my neck, and hissed
"Stay still now, slave.  Stay very still, as a prod
here can really hurt you."   "

I was tempted to say  "So what?", as of course a prod
anywhere really hurts.  But there was no point in
arguing with one of the low-level guards like that as
he would not be able to argue sensibly with me.  So I
just lay there as they unshackled my hands from the
front legs of the horse, brought them around behind
me, and cuffed them together.

Marc then said quietly "Right, Steve.  You know what
happens next!  Stand up....."

I felt the pressure of the prod removed from my neck,
and did as I had been ordered.  With an almost
mischievous grin Marc approached me, then, keeping his
gaze locked on my eyes, he reached down and grabbed
hold of my cock!   Look, it's OK, isn't it, to have a
man grab your cock when you're having fun in bed?  But
I can tell you that it's absolutely not acceptable
when you're standing there helpless, as I was.
Instinctively went to jerk away from him, and shouted
out "Let go of me, you fucking little bastard...."

I saw the guard lunge forward, prod at the ready, but
Marc gestured for him to stop and simply squeezed my
cock hard - very hard - so it was impossible for me to
pull away.  "Now, Steve", he intoned calmly, "You know
it's no good!  You're cuffed, and I'm holding your
cock.  There's no escape, unless you want to tear your
cock out by the roots, so I think you ought to behave
yourself!"

He was right, of course - I mean, how often in the
past had I held a new slave like this, and actually
enjoyed the sensation of a warm cock in my hands?  And
I knew Marc was right - there was no escape.  So I
stood there sullenly, until he pulled at my cock and I
had to follow him as he walked towards the door and we
began to mount the stairs.

It had never occurred to me that being led along by
your cock was difficult, but it is - especially as you
go upstairs, and the guy who is leading you is at the
wrong height and he starts to really pull on you.  But
I had no choice but to follow him, did I?  I tried to
protest, asked him to slow down,  pleaded with him to
be more careful, but he either chose not to listen, or
not to take any action except to say "Oh come on,
Steve!  It's easy enough!  How many men have you led
across the yard like this when you were the
Instrument?"

He was right, of course, and I suppose I now realised
where we were heading to - and I wasn't wrong!  If the
brand seared into me had started me on the path of
understanding that my life as a slave was going to be
very different from my life as a free man, that
enforced walk across the yard with everyone staring at
me began to reinforce it - not that I am ashamed of my
body or anything, as I have told you:  most men ought
to be envious of my physique.  No, it was more that a
young guy like Marc had total control of me, and that
all the people who saw my enforced passage would be
aware of it:  a young sixteen year old slave was now
in total control of me, who had formerly been the one
who ran things around here.

Having the blacksmith fit my collar was awful, too -
not just the sheer unpleasantness of having the hot
rivet hammered home right by my ear to hold the thing
securely in place around my neck, but  the knowledge
that it was secured there permanently. And that
everyone looking at me would know I was a slave, as no
free man would now ever wear even the smallest chain
around his neck as the collar was such a universal
symbol of subservience.  And it as heavy, too - that
had not occurred to me before:  a wide, thick piece of
iron weighs several pounds, and the human body is just
not used to having such a weight around the neck.  I
stood there in front of Marc, my hands still cuffed,
as I experimentally shook my head several times to get
the "feel" of the thing.

Marc observed me doing this, and said, as I suppose I
had said to him some time before, "Don't worry about
it, Steve.  You'll soon get used to it - that weight
will start to feel natural very quickly - although
carrying it around will be surprisingly tiring, or so
I found."

As he said this he reached down and grabbed my cock
again, and snapped "Right, almost done, and then
you'll be a proper slave.  You remember what happens
next, don't you, Steve?  You remember how our owner
the Sheikh likes a slave to look?  No hiding  that
lovely cock head of yours away - it has to be on full
public display, all the time."

A he said this he let his thumb stroke back my 'skin,
and for a few moments he held my exposed cock head
there in the palm of his hand.  "Oh yes, Steve:  every
one is going to see this, all the time, not just those
men you rape and fuck.  Now, come on, follow me -
you're lucky as the veterinarian is here today, and
you can get all the pain over at one time."

It was no use protesting, of course.  He led me to the
small room we reserved for the peripatetic
veterinarian, opened the door, and led me inside.  The
guy was in there, fiddling around cleaning his
instruments or something, and as he glanced me he
called out cheerily "Hi, Steve - have you brought me
another of those nice young boys to 'skin?"

He did one of those "double takes" then as he realised
I was naked and collared and being led by Marc, and
gave a low whistle.  "Wow!  You've fallen from power
big time, haven't you?  How did you manage to upset
His Highness so badly?"

"I'm his Highness's new Instrument", Marc cut in.
"I've brought the new slave Steve here for 'skinning,
so cut the crap and get a move on and do it."

"Listen, you little fucker", the vet said to him.
"You may be the new Instrument around here, but I only
took your 'skin a few months ago, and I know you as a
slave.  And if you don't show me the respect a free
man deserves, I'll call a guard in here and have you
whipped!"

A flash of anger crossed Marc's face for a moment, but
then he muttered "Sorry, sir.  But we are in a hurry -
Steve is now a slave, and his Highness is eager to see
him fully converted, as you might say.  So could you
please proceed with his 'skinning immediately?"

The veterinarian looked a little mollified at Marc's
humble tone, and retorted "And has his Highness
indicated the 'finish' he wants on Steve?  A fine fat
cock like he has would look very good with just a
partial 'skinning, so that some of the head was always
visible, surrounded by a 'frame' of his original
'skin.  They do say it is now very fashionable to have
a slave's piss slit peeking out  like that...."

"No.  Like all the slaves here he is to be done 'high
and tight', giving him maximum exposure.  And make
sure there is as little residual scarring as
possible..... His Highness considers him to be a very
fine specimen, and will want to take maximum advantage
of the splendour of his body by really showing him
off.  I think he's going to use him as a kind of
'matched pair' to the other big whitey slave he has,
the one used as a pony."

The veterinarian carried on grumbling to himself as he
fussed around preparing his instruments, and I stood
there with the sick realisation that I was soon to
experience the so-called 'minor operation' that I had
led so many men to in the past.

I was reluctant to sit down in the veterinarian's
chair, until Marc simply pointed out that he would
call a guard and have me prodded if I continued to
delay - I'd never had that problem, of course, as with
my power and strength most of the unfortunate men in
there had been thrown down and pinioned as the straps
were tightened around their chests, arms, thighs and
legs.  Now I was in this same position, sitting there
utterly powerless and totally out of control of my own
body.  I heard the vet ask Marc if  I was to be
anaesthetised, and on seeing Marc shake his head he
came over to me holding out a short, thick bar of
heavy rubber.

"Here, Steve..." His tone was not unkind.  "Bite down
on this, as it will help.  I'll be as quick as I
can.... Now, do you need to piss first?  I don't want
a mess all over the place...."

I shook my head, and heard Marc say "He's already done
that!  He let go when he was branded, and I reckon
he's pretty empty."

During my time as his Highness's Instrument I suppose
I'd seen dozens of new salves being 'skinned, and so I
ought to have been prepared for what was going to
happen to me.  But as the vet made his first cut - to
sever the little bridge of skin on the underside of my
cock and free up my 'skin -  and the hurt from the
scalpel shot through me, I began to scream (but it was
muffled by the rubber bar gripped between my teeth
which, as the vet had predicted, did help).

The pain seems to go on and on - and it's a horrible,
sharp, stinging, hot pain in a part of your body
that's particularly sensitive.   My muscles thrashed
impotently as I tried desperately to move my body out
of the way of the cylinder that was slid over my cock
and I continued to cry out as the hard edge of it
rasped against the freshly-cut surface.  The vet did
know his business of course, and, as he said he would
be, he was quick:  with the cylinder in position, he
quickly and competently cut around my 'skin that he
pulled forward up the cylinder, and then he used
special glue to stick together the raw, bleeding cut
edges of my 'skin.

I could feel tears rolling down my cheeks as my
sobbing subsided  - I wasn't now sure which was
hurting more - the hot raw pain from my 'skinning, or
the angry, deep, dull continuous throb from my brand.
But I suppose I had ceased  to care.  I now knew that
I had gone from being a free man to being altered into
a slave - and there was no going back.

"I'm not going to lead you to the stables by your
cock, Steve", Marc added.  "I know you were quite good
to me when I was 'skinned.  But let me warn you to
follow me closely - you're still cuffed helplessly,
and at the slightest sign of resistance, I won't
hesitate to grab that raw end of your cock- and can
you imagine how that will hurt?"

He was right, of course.  I knew I was powerless, and
so followed him meekly as we went diagonally across
the yard to the stables block.  There was that
familiar smell of sweat and "maleness" from the
ponies, many of whom had returned form their daily
assignments by now.  They all watched as I was led
naked and bloody by a mere boy down the central aisle,
and I saw the sets of drays, a couple of the
sprinters, and finally Jason, stare at me as we
passed.

"You'll be bedding down with Jason eventually", Marc
told me, "As his Highness intends to use you for pony
work.  But until you're healed, we'll give you a stall
of your own:  that Jason is a powerful fucker, and I
think he has a few grudges to work out on you..... The
risk of you being damaged by him until our wounds have
properly healed is too great."

It had not occurred to me that trying to sleep totally
naked on a hard concrete floor covered in a layer of
straw was difficult.  The straw has sharp ends, that
stick into you.  You can feel the hardness of the
floor through the straw.  And I'm just not used to
sleeping without some covering over me.  So it was
hard to get to sleep - especially with the throbbing
aching pain from my wounds.  And my power to move
about was so restricted - the traditional shackle,
holding one ankle to the short floor chain, saw to
that.  How can a man be treated like this, just as if
he were an animal?   But I must have slept, as I can
remember having nightmares:  nightmares of thrusting,
raging stallions, doing unspeakable things to my
defenceless body.

End Of Part Eight